The Rising Storm
by Jord
Summary: Weapon X resurfaces with a deadly agenda in mind. Nick Fury is no longer head of SHIELD, and its new leader is pitting mutants against mutants. Its first target: The X men.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own X Men. The characters that you do not recognize, however, are my own. Part of this story is set in ****Afghanistan**** and in other countries (as the story proceeds). I am not an expert in the cultures of some of these regions and if I offend anyone or make errors regarding historical accounts, please accept my apologies. Technical issues: all sentences in italics generally represent a character speaking a foreign language.**

* * *

**KABUL**

**AFGHANISTAN**

**JUNE 1998**

The sun sinks over the horizon, delivering a brief respite from the harsh heat as darkness seeps over the land. The small houses are within large ramshackle, wooden gates and if we look through these gates and into the homes we see the flickering light of kerosene lamps illuminate the interior. The lamps cause a dull glow on the inhabitants, who are cooking the evening meal – meager fare as it is. A woman rises up from her mat and pours out water from a pitcher into a basin, into which she plunges her hands and then her face. She looks up, her face dripping with water, from the basin outside the window – which is devoid of glass – into the night and sighs. Everything remains the same. The objects, the people, the fear. Everyday is the same. And it wouldn't matter were it the life of her choice. That would be her own mistake. This, however, isn't the life she chose. She would rather be dead, she thinks. Sometimes, when the numbness that gets her through the day wears off, she looks to the simple kitchen knife and wonders...just a little slash to the wrist would be all it would take. Quick as anything and as simple as hell. She blinks at the darkness outside and turns her attention indoors. Later. She'll think about this later.

Near a leafless tree outside the gate, a dog lies down with its head tucked between its forepaws and allows its tired eyes to close. Apart from the occasional noise of a passing jeep, nothing else rouses him from his sleep. Minutes later, his ears jerk backwards catching the sound of something unfamiliar. A jeep? No, the rumbling is of a different sort. Quieter. He lifts his head up, attention aroused, and looks towards the source of this disturbance. Over the dusty hill, he sees a very small vehicle make its way slowly yet steadily towards him. Uncertain of whether to fight or flee, the dog stands up and looks at this new intruder for a few seconds. Then deciding that walking away would mean he'd live to fight another day is the choice to make, he places his tail between his legs and scuttles off to find a safe hiding place.

The small vehicle is a motorbike – lights switched off, carrying one solitary occupant. The occupant's face is obscured, not by a helmet, but by a black mask, cut open only to reveal the person's eyes. In the dark we cannot tell if this person is a man or a woman, but judging by the place and time, logic demands us to assume it is a man. For a woman traveling unaccompanied during Afghanistan's occupation by the Taliban would be a crime punishable by death. Yes, only a man could be so bold.

The bike makes its way onto the makeshift road leading to the homes behind the gates and stops. The occupant climbs off it and turns off the engine. It is obvious that the noise it made would have been heard by the people living within, but the person shows no outward display of fear towards this. He seems not to care about anyone or anything aware of his presence. The individual looks up at down at the gate, as if sizing up an opponent, finally pulls out a weapon from underneath his jacket and fires twice at something through the wood of the gate. We hear a clink and see him kick the door open with his foot, walking into the small dusty clearing surrounded by the houses as if he owned them all.

Within, the women huddle together in the corner of the kitchen. The lights from the kerosene lamps have been extinguished. All have stopped speaking words of fear except for one, who continues to whisper in her native tongue.

'_They're here...the Taliban have finally come to kill us all. Oh God, please be merciful... Please be merciful..._'

'_Shut up!_' hisses another woman, and then turns her anger into fear again as both become quiet.

They hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps make its way up the stone steps and into the house. They realize that there is no point in resistance. After all, thinks one woman, what have they got to live for? The others – whose eyes have become accustomed to the darkness, use the little moonlight filtering through a barred window to make out the outline of their would-be assailant. Some gasp as a black figure enters the doorway and some shut their eyes in denial. The person is faceless. Surely, this is a new terror. Something someone has concocted from the depths of hell. Something worse than the Taliban.

The person speaks. It is a woman's voice and it speaks in Afghani.

'_Where is the Mullah?_' she asks.

Nobody replies. The intruder wonders whether it is a silence of surprise in that she is a woman or a silence caused by fear. She continues to speak.

'_I have not come for you or yours. I have some matters to discuss with the Master of this house.' _Then, in an effort to sound less harsh,_ 'It is with him that I have business – no harm will come to you._'

Finally, the boldest woman speaks. '_We are just his wives. We don't want to be here...surely you can understand, you are a woman too._' Her statement is almost a question, something she needs to ask to be certain of their survival.

'_It's as I said. No harm will come to you. Just tell me where he is. He is in with you here?_'

'_No._' mutters another. She points tentatively with her finger. '_In the other section.__ The house with the ladder leading to the door.'_

The woman wearing the mask turns away while speaking. _'God will bless you for your help_.'

Moments later she is by the ladder which she notes has been kicked down from the doorway upstairs. She grins within her mask in realization that the man she hunts is aware of her presence. She picks up the ladder from the sand, places it against the wall and begins to climb. On entering the house she looks around – it is darker in here than outside and she is slightly perturbed at this lack of sight. Never mind, she is the hunter this time. There is nothing to fear. As she takes a step forward, something comes rushing out at her from the darkness, pushes her out the high doorway and leaves her hanging onto its ledge with feet dangling over the edge.

'Oh shit.' she says, in English.

She turns her head upwards and looks at the old, bearded man gazing down at her.

'_You dog!_' he shouts and then spits at her. '_You_ _dare come into my house and try to murder me?! Do you even know who I am?_'

Out of the corner of her eye she sees that her gun has fallen far from her grasp. Her situation is precarious, but still not lethal. She focuses on his words, drawing in anger that fuels her strength.

_'I know who you are. I will never forget your face. I can never forget. And I am here for one reason. To make sure you never forget mine!_' with that, she pushes herself up on her arms and deftly manages to get on leg in through the doorway. With the other, she delivers a kick to the man's stomach within a matter of seconds. He stumbles backwards and falls onto a table, toppling it. She stretches her neck and walks calmly towards the man, speaking to him.

'_I_ _do believe I have a promise to keep. To you and myself.'_ While the man struggles to catch his breath she pulls out a match from her pocket and lights it. In the glow of the dull flame, she yanks her mask off revealing her face.

The man blinks several times. The face is of an Afghan woman – but of none that he recognizes. Her hair has been cut short – something sacrilegious at the time – and her eyes hold the same hazel color of all the wives he owns. Also the same hatred. But for the life of him, he cannot remember.

'_Nothing?__ No flicker of recognition? Your memory is aging, Faiser. Think harder. Think back to five years ago. Think back to the afternoon in which you were once the judge on the council of which you held a prestigious place. Think of the trials you oversaw. Such a great man, you were.'_ her tone becomes mocking.

'_There_ _were many trials..._' he mutters, determined not to lose face in front of a woman.

'Oh_, but this one was special. That day was the first day you condemned a child to her death. And not by simply gunning her down, no. You had her stoned. For profanity, you said. For speaking filth. And the witnesses? All yours...all on your side. All lies.'_ It is her turn to spit on the man. '_She died for nothing. Save to control the one person you thought you could use._'

The man finally speaks in remembrance. '_Jemiah...the one blessed with weapons..._'

'_You murdered my daughter_.'

The flame from the match burns down to stump and the light is gone. Quickly, the man scrambles up and for a second, the woman is confused. Then she sees something shiny glint in the moonlight and her thoughts focus, warning her. It is the blade of a knife rushing towards her throat. With instinct that has been instilled into her, she turns her back towards him and grabs the knife with both hands. She yanks it from him, and then elbows him in the chest. He stumbles back yet again, but this time she doesn't wait for him to fall. She runs forward and thrusts the blade deep into his chest with a primal scream and it is over.

She looks into his dying eyes as they look back pleadingly at her.

She speaks coldly. '_Don't turn to me for pity or humanity. I do not have those emotions any more. It has all been killed on the day she died. And take these words with you as you leave this world. You have no one to blame for it but yourself._'


	2. Chapter 1

**ISLAMABAD******

**PAKISTAN******

**JUNE 1998**

A bus hoots by a crowded street filled with an assortment of individuals. Amongst the cows, dogs and dust we see a few tourists sporting their chunky bag packs, wearing Ray Ban sunglasses that glint in the hot afternoon heat. Behind the tourists we see the woman who just under twenty four hours ago murdered her daughter's killer. If we ask her if what she did were just, perhaps she would scoff and say that such a question is irrelevant in a world devoid of justice. Or perhaps she would just walk away. As of now, though, she continues to stroll behind the tourists, wearing Punjabi clothes and Western earrings, looking very much the modern Pakistani woman. She stops at the street corner and looks at her watch. It is apparent that whoever she's waiting for is late. She spends two minutes looking around her – it is market day today and lengthy lines of street sellers with their produce spread out on mats call loudly to passers-by.

Finally a black car – an overused Toyota Corona – pulls up by the street and the driver rolls down his window.

He calls out to the woman in an American accent. 'Alice Smith? You touring this part of Islamabad for a reason?'

'Yeah. Got a little tired of the heat in Kabul, so I came to some place hotter.'

It is obvious that this small talk is anything but. Satisfied that the woman is indeed the individual he was sent to pick up, the driver nods and pulls his head back in.

We hear a silent thunk of a lock being opened inside. Alice gets in head first and shuts the door. Seated next to her is a well-built man, probably in his early fifties wearing khaki pants and an overly pink Polo shirt. He wipes the excess sweat off his reddening forehead and calls out to the driver.

'Is that damned air conditioner on max? It sure feels as if you turned the knob the wrong danged way!' He grimaces and then focuses on Alice. 'Drive to the airport is a few miles from here. We hired a private jet to get you to your next destination... I trust you found everything satisfactory?'

'Great service as always.' Alice looks out the window wondering how people have this inbred gift to hide their emotions so well. Is that what they call survival? 'One small glitch, however. You failed to deliver the second package. You gave me your word.'

The man holds up his hands in defense. 'Hey _hey_! The _word_, my dear friend, was given to me by higher ups. I'm just the messenger. Standard operation procedure.'

'I suppose that's the standard excuse too.' Her face is deadpan and it's hard to know what thoughts are going through her mind.

He struggles to read it. Is that disappointment? Suppressed anger? Is it a woman thing? He gives up and resorts to a more conciliatory, yet stern, explanation. 'Look, there's been a change in plan – none of which is my fault. You still have your end of the bargain to fulfill. We gave you a taste for meat and we're not giving you anymore until you do what you promised to do.'

He looks at her as she remains silent, and little beads of sweat begin to collect near the back of his neck. It is not from the heat. The woman sitting next to him is dangerous, efficient, unpredictable and she'd just murdered a man less than a day ago. Of course, they'd trained them that way – they all held the same threat – but being in close vicinity was different from looking at them through indestructible glass. The driver, Henrik, was special ops too and was great at his job, but he was much further away than Alice Smith. And that did nothing to ease his mounting tension.

'That's why I'm here, aren't I?' she says, finally.

He breathes a sigh of relief and even makes an attempt at humor. 'Where'd you get those earrings?' he nods towards her. 'The local K Mart?'

'In Vancouver actually...at a flea market. Back when I was Francoise Benet. Speaking of which, is everything ready?'

All business again. Well, that was better than playing at would-she, won't-she in the category of physical assault. He reached into his small briefcase and pulled out a small book, bound with maroon leather. He opens it to the last page and we see it is a passport, containing a photo I.D. and all other relevant information.

'I'll have to take Alice Smith back, I'm afraid.' He extends his hand out.

She, in turn, pulls out the passport in her possession and hands it to him. She looks at the new one given to her. The picture is a little grainy and is worse than the one before, but that is of no particular concern. The name, however, is. A native of Portugal, born twenty two years ago in Lisbon, professionally trained as an accountant and goes by the name of Amelia Oliveira. She likes the name and says it softly in her mind. Kala would have liked it too, she knows.

'I'd like to be her for longer than a week, if you don't mind.' she says, wanting to keep this name, this identity. Why, she wonders? 'For security reasons.'

'I don't control the strings when it comes to identity protocol, sweetheart. But the word is that where you're going, you'll get plenty of time to get acquainted with dear ol' Amelia. You speak Portuguese?'

'A little. But I would-'

He interrupts her. 'Good. Because your next stop is Helsinki. I don't believe you'll need any Portuguese there. But maybe a light jacket.'

'I've never been to Finland...' says Amelia softly.

* * *

**COOKTOWN**

**AUSTRALIA******

**THE MAGDALENE PUB**

**PRESENT DAY**

It is 10 p.m. on a school night, and a small crowd gathers round the television set near the bar. The favorites, the New Zealand All Blacks play Australia tonight and husbands who've all made excuses to their wives have sneaked out to watch the game with some of their mates. Others, not true rugby fans, drink their beer and try to keep conversation amidst the rowdy cheers. The owner of the pub looks quite content, tonight's profit is something he'll look forward too, but it won't even come close to that which he'll make when the semi-finals come around.

A solitary man wearing a coat – seemingly made of fur – sits hunched over his empty beer glass. From time to time he looks up, considering getting another pint from the bar, but then changes his mind. It is not shyness that halts him from doing so, just the fact that another beer at this point seems too large of an effort. He would like his energy to be channeled elsewhere.

Suddenly, he feels a light tap on his shoulder and looks angrily at the person daring to interrupt his solitude.

The man by his side speaks. 'Buy you a drink, mate? Was gonna get one meself but that last kookaburra I had for dinner really destroyed my apetite. Even for a cold beer.'

'Toad...' snarls the larger man.

'The one and only.' he says. Toad sits opposite his old friend – if you could even call Sabretooth a friend – and grins widely. 'Took me a bloody long time to find you. Being the recluse you are. But I did, and I come bearing a message.'

'That you're leaving?'

Toad stares at Sabretooth for a second. His eyes retain its same feral look; he seems to have lost nothing of his former self after a particular disastrous incident at Ellis Island in New York. 'No. It's more an offer actually. Eric is free, mate. Broke out of that bloody prison Houdini-style. With flair.'

'So what?' asks Sabretooth, uninterested.

'So the Brotherhood is back in business. With adjustments. Made to improve, of course.'

Sabretooth snorts. 'Sounds like the same thing they say about the Chicago Cubs.'

Toad's grin vanishes and his face becomes somewhat serious. 'I believe in his cause. You did too.'

'You? With ideals???' the larger man laughs. 'The only reason you're stuck with that bunch of losers is because no one else will take you in. You feather-brained morons are pathetic, you know that? Even worse than the X Men.'

It's Toad's turn to get angry. 'You have a better agenda in mind? Community service, maybe?'

'No. Unlike you, Toad...I've come to realize what I really am. And my profession of choice suits my personality like a velvet glove. A match made in heaven. Or hell. Whichever way you'd like to see it.'

Toad scratches his head. Diplomatic communications was never his strong point. 'You make coffee at Starbucks?'

Sabretooth snarls again but this time leaves his teeth bared at his former ally. 'I'm back at the joint where they made me – where they create monsters. Great place for recreation. You should try it sometime.'

Toad's eyes widen in horror and he gets up from his seat, trying not to appear too hurried. He doesn't say anything in farewell, no snippy comment or smart retorts. He strides quickly towards the coat rack and grabs his jacket. Toad looks back one more time and shudders. He thought it was over. He thought it had been over for a long while. As did Eric and Mystique. He had to tell them, and soon. Time was of the essence. It appeared as if they had a bigger concern than the X Men or mutant-hating bigots on their hands.


	3. Chapter 2

**TAMPERE**

**FINLAND**

The electronic buzz and the hum from the super Cray computers quietly competed with the voices in the large room. However, all the instruments within actually concealed its true size, creating an almost claustrophobic environment for the unaccustomed individual. Huge plasma screens had been attached to the walls, connected to the many CPUs whilst several people – all clothed in military attire – sat purposefully at their stations carrying out their assigned tasks. Only one man stood out, mainly because of his clothing. It was undoubtedly military-wear, but its design and cut signified someone of higher rank. He sat quietly, in a corner, sipping a freshly brewed cup of Colombian coffee.

At the other corner of the room sat Lieutenant Brakster, speaking into her headset whilst simultaneously typing at her console. Every now and then her eyes flicked back and forth from the screen in front of her to the blinking lights on her keypad. But this time, however, her eyes flicked to her screen and remained there while her brain was trying to calculate what she saw before her.

There was movement in sector 7, grid 28, and it did not appear to be one of their own. This was so because all military personnel wore concealed bar codes on their uniforms, therefore enabling the laser scanners located in several sections of the compound to identify all individuals. This individual, however, could not be identified and seconds later a small amber warning light flickered to life on her screen. Amber because the intruder posed a potential threat – he, or she, was technically still outside the compound's perimeter, on civilian ground. This could all simply be another false alarm, just like the one they experienced a few days ago.

During that incident, three teens, obviously high on something, had somehow managed to make their way to the perimeter fence. Unbeknownst to them, the fence protected and concealed a secret military base devoid of any standard warning signs. At first, everyone inside the compound had thought the worst. Perhaps this small party was herald to the arrival of a group with bent on bringing the military operation to a halt. Or perhaps they were simple a band of renegade mutants, angry over recent anti-mutant proposals. The commander of the base was immediately notified, and he in turn – without much delay – gave security on the outside the "red fire" command. This was their jargon for "shoot to kill" if any of the intruders actually managed to step foot within the restricted area. Lieutenant Brakster, in the meantime, was working hard to get a clearer image of the three individuals. She knew that if the three were brought down, and later proved to be mere pranksters, this would in turn bring a whole load of unwanted media attention. Seven agonizing minutes later, an image blowup of one intruder was sent to all screens, including the commander of the base. He took one look at the seventeen-year old with dyed pink hair, and swore. Another seven minutes later, the three teens found the fence uninteresting, and sauntered off back into the woods, oblivious to the fact that they had walked so close to death. Everyone inside let out huge sighs of relief.

But it was time for them to hold their breath again.

The one thing that differentiated this incident from the previous one was the way this subject was moving. Lieutenant Brakster looked at the blurry picture of the individual on her screen and swallowed. It was undoubtable that he was walking at a steady pace, with a particular direction in mind. The military base. Within a few seconds, he would be at the perimeter fence. To walk towards it in such a purposeful manner only meant that he knew the fence existed, despite its hidden location. The amber light started to flash, signifying the mounting threat. This guy was not here to stargaze.

Brakster spun around in her seat and shouted. 'General Leeward! We have an intruder approach in sector 7!'

The General put his coffee down, and walked slowly towards the Lieutenant. 'Please don't tell me it's the flower children again...'

'No sir, doesn't look that way. We have one person – appears to be alone.' answered Brakster as the General stood behind her.

'Can't you blow that thing up? The picture's so blurry it looks like we're in the middle of a blizzard!'

'Working on it, sir. But with the electricity problems we've been having over the last couple weeks, some of the cameras can't focus properly, and the feed is slow.'

The General pursed his lips, thinking. 'Switch to the IR cameras. They're battery operated aren't they?'

Brakster snapped her fingers, and then started tapping away at her keypad. 'Good idea, sir.'

Thirty seconds later, a colorful image popped onto the side of the screen. Otherwise incomprehensible, the colors took the shape of a human body – the blue-green areas being the regions with the least generated heat, and the red areas being the hottest.

'Subject appears to be at least six feet tall, sir. Male and-' she was suddenly cut short by a loud warning buzz and flashing lights within the room. People who were previously seated calmly at their consoles, seemed to come alive with activity.

'Sir! Outer perimeter has been breached!' shouted one man next to Brakster. 'Four units have been sent down to retrieve the intruder. What are your orders on capture, sir?'

_Terrific.__ Just when you thought it was going to be a quiet day on the farm_, thought General Leeward. 'I'll give the orders when we have proper identification, Lieutenant!' Leeward snapped at the man. 'Brakster, keep working on that feed! I need to know who the bloody hell has the gall to come striding in here like John-fucking-Wayne!'

Two minutes later. 'Sir! We have visual!' called out a voice from somewhere behind the General.

He walked quickly towards it, and stared at the screen in front of him. _'Sabretooth._..' he muttered quietly to himself. 'Only that nut could make such an entrance...'

'General, the units are closing in and await your orders. What do I tell them?'

'Hold their fire.' Leeward breathed out a frustrated sigh. 'And get someone to fix that damned fence!'

* * *

Sabretooth walked into the metallic corridor, brushing the flakes of snow angrily off his coat. He took every chance he could to snarl at the wimps in military-garb. And though none of them flinched outwardly, Sabretooth liked to think they were pissing in their pants at the very sight of him. He knew none of them were quite comfortable with Weapon X experiments being allowed to saunter around the base – unsupervised, especially – and took pleasure in it. He didn't need some goddamned escort.

Sabretooth reached the end of the long corridor, where a heavily armored door lay. He stood in front of it, and looked up at the security camera.

'It's me.' he growled.

Two seconds later, there was an almost inaudible hum and the doors slid open to reveal General Leeward, lips pursed and brow furrowed in anger. Sabretooth's eyes withdrew from their usually bad-tempered gaze for a moment.

'Just what the hell do you think this place is? The Ritz-Carlton?' it was the General's turn to snarl.

'I took the shortest route here. The fence was in my way.' was Sabretooth's explanation. He pushed past the General, who in turn grew angrier.

'You listen to me! No one – I repeat: _no one_ – is above authority unless they've earned it! And _you _especially,' Leeward looked Sabretooth up and down in contempt, 'do not fall in that category.'

'Say that again?' threatened Sabretooth spinning around.

'You heard me just fine. Don't think we're incapable of defending ourselves, sweetheart. Don't falter for a second to think we don't have the capability...and the _means_, to put you back in...treatment.'

For an instant, a flicker of fear crossed Sabretooth's face. The General took this as an invitation to threaten him further. 'Yeah, you got some fond memories of the good ol' days, don't you? Let's just hope that they remain that way – as memories. And let me remind you of what you're here for, sweetheart – our generous gift to you. You go flitting about breaking rules like this and you're never gonna get to him. That is, if you still want him...'

Sabretooth remained silent, and then growled out a name. '_Wolverine_...'

'I'll take that as a "yes".' Stated General Leeward as he stomped out of the room, triumphant.

* * *

**WESTCHESTER**

**NEW YORK**

**XAVIER'S INSTITUE FOR GIFTED CHILDREN**

**11 P.M.**

'Hey, hey! Watch me! Betcha can't do this one!' whispered the girl excitedly across the room to her new friend.

'Not so loud, you dolt! He can hear us...and try to keep it down,' spoke her more demure compatriot as she glanced nervously towards the door.

The other girl rolled her eyes, and placed her hands on her hips. 'They're gone...G-O-N-E. You think they got security cameras installed in our rooms? That Cyclops spends his nights watching them figuring our new ways to ground us? Oh pul-lease. You remember what happened with Dr. Grey. He's probably locked himself up in the men's room – _crying_.'

The other girl opened her mouth in shock. 'Becky! That is such a mean thing to say! Totally self-centered. How would you like it if someone you loved just died like that?' she clicked her fingers.

Youthful arrogance left Becky's face immediately. It was replaced by a mixture of hurt and anger.

Her friend, on immediate realization of her mistake – clapped her hands to her mouth. Having recently arrived at Xavier's Institute, she did not have sufficient time to process the life histories of all her new friends. But of all stories she heard – Becky's should have stood out most of all. Coming here – she had expected everyone to have tragic tales to tell – of intolerant parents, abandonment and rejection. But surprisingly, most came from stable home environments, loving parents and relatives who were trying to do right by their children. Except for Becky. She was now twelve, going on thirteen, only child of two serious junkies. Her parents had both died of drug overdoses, whilst Becky – her mutant powers only beginning to emerge – was left to fend for herself. It could have turned out to be tragic, if not for Becky's spunk, humor and her never-say-die attitude. It was that that brought her to this school. In fact, it saved her life.

'I'm so sorry! Oh God Becky, I forgot!' she apologized, her voice becoming louder.

'It's okay,' said Becky, more in alarm at bringing up their "babysitter" than in apology-acceptance. Her younger friend had a knack for becoming overly-nervous. That in itself didn't bother Becky, but its consequences did.

'No...No! It isn't! I forgot completely about your mom! And your dad...and the drugs! Oh God I'm sorry!' Her voice was louder now. More high-pitched.

'Shhh – you ninny! Quiet down!'

It was too late. The air in the room began to move, swirling faster and faster around their heads. The overhead fan began to spin in the darkness adding to the wind. Becky's hair whipped up around her eyes, while she was figuring out ways to get the little hurricane to die down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the porcelain lamp rock back and forth precariously, leaning towards the edge of the bedside table. _If it fell_, thought Becky, _we've had it_. She turned around and ran towards the lamp. She managed to grasp the bottom of it, when suddenly a piece of paper whipped up against her face, making her squeal. She lost her grip and the lamp fell to the floor, shattering into large pieces.

The room door flung open, a figure standing within its frame – glowering.

The wind died down as quickly as it had arisen.

'Party's over, kids.'

'We're sorry!' began Becky. 'We were just talking and uh...you know Nina hasn't learnt...'

'Talk? _Talk_...led to this?' he asked, nodding towards the debris scattered across the room.

'Mr. Logan – she's new. She hasn't learnt anything yet...and it was more my fault for trying to show her what I could do. Things kinda got out of hand.'

'When the others are away, you know I'm in charge. Right?' said Logan.

The two girls nodded.

'The old rules still apply. No foolin' around with your powers. I'm serious when I mean bed at ten. It means lying down on that pillow,' he pointed towards their beds, 'and sleeping. If you can't sleep, read a book. You got that?' Logan winced. He sounded old, cranky, and similar to a starchy old butler. They'd soon be calling him Jeeves. He shook his head in disbelief.

'Yes sir.' they both said in nervous unison.

He was about to leave, when he turned back around. And not wanting to seem too much like Jeeves, he said, 'Let me help you get this mess cleaned up.' He flipped on the bedroom light. 'What'd you do – invite Hurricane Andrew for a sleepover?'

The girls laughed.


	4. Chapter 4

**HELSINKI**

**FINLAND******

**PRESENT DAY**

"_Recent documents revealed to the public by the grand jury provide proof of tax evasion, which is reason enough for tort lawyers to proceed to..._"

A click. The picture on the screen went black. The woman stood in front of the television and lay down the remote control. Her head began to pound from watching the news all day. She squeezed her eyes tight and yawned. The clock read 3 a.m. – a fitting time to go to bed indeed.

'Not just yet, Amelia...' came out a voice from the semi-darkness of her small hallway.

She spun around, muscles coiled and ready to spring.

He stepped out into the light and held up his hands placatingly; he meant no harm. 'Easy...just thought I'd check up on how you've been doing.'

She threw her head back in relief and groaned. 'Jeez, Marco – have you ever heard of knocking? And don't think you can trick me into believing that you showed up because you were concerned about my welfare. It's been six years.'

'I'm sorry, honey – I was a little tied up in Shanghai.' he spoke, sarcasm in his voice.

She turned away and walked towards the kitchen. 'Literally?'

'Literally.'

'Really,' she said as she began to turn on the espresso machine. 'Who'd you tick off this time – Maoists?' She pointed to the coffee jar and looked at him questioningly.

'Black, as always.' He sat down on a stool in the kitchen and sighed. 'No. To tell the truth, we don't even know who we PO'd so that they would turn us in to the Chinese government. It was slam dunk for them as far as we were concerned. One minute I was escorting our ambassador to Beijing and the next I found myself waking up in a slum of a jail cell next to a Chinese version of Marilyn Manson.'

Amelia looked at him seriously for a moment, and then let out a small smile. 'Whoa there, bubba. One thing at a time. You were convicted...of a crime?'

The man smiled back and nodded. 'Smuggling military aircraft parts across the Nepalese border. Pity nobody told me beforehand that I had a hobby. I would've tried to keep it in check.'

'You and who else?'

'Fury. But the lucky stiff got out earlier than I did. I heard he got some kind of amnesty deal. News spreads fast in death camps.'

'Fury...no, there was no deal. He's gone, Marco – no one's seen or heard from him since you last disappeared.'

The coffee in the pot began to boil.

'He hasn't been in contact with you? With Deacon and the rest?''

Amelia shook her head in puzzlement. 'I don't understand – didn't you contact S.H.I.E.L.D. when you got in – don't you know what kind of pressure we've all been under for the past few years?'

Marco looked down at his shoes, trying to make sense of this new information. 'First place I went to when I got out was here, Amelia. Found out from an old friend where you were and came straight here. I didn't pay any visits to relatives along the way.'

'My place. You came here...oh Lord, Marco. You're a bigger idiot than I thought.'

'I missed you.'

She ignored him. 'Do you know,' she spoke with anger in her voice. 'Do you know that some of them actually think you're responsible for Fury's disappearance? That he "conveniently" disappeared around the same time that you did? Deacon doesn't, of course – and he's still temporarily in charge – so I guess you could say that he's holding the wolves at bay. You should go back, Marco, tell them the truth.'

'And the truth shall set me free? That isn't what got me out of Shanghai, sweetie. I can tell you that much.'

Her face softened. It was a rare occurrence and Marco enjoyed it every time he saw it. 'Six years. Was it really the hell hole they described?'

'Pretty much.'

'I'm so sorry,' she began.

'I thought of you every single day.'

'No, Marco.' she closed her eyes and shook her head. 'I told you before...I can't. Not that way.'

He tried not to listen to her, rubbed his fingers together and looked at them sadly. 'It's funny. Years ago, when my wife died and I had that damn desk job, and nothing to live for...there were days when it seemed so terribly convenient to stick a magnum to my temple and just blow my pathetic life to hell. And then, years later when I actually found myself in that camp – in _hell_, all I could think about was how to survive. Just keep breathing, just making it from one day to the next. I would've given up my limbs to get back to that desk job.'

'That bad, huh?' she cracked a wan smile.

He nodded.

'How about that cup of coffee then?'

* * *

Amelia wrapped the woolen blanket around her and leaned back into the comfort of her recliner. From there, she watched silently as her friend slept peacefully on the bed. She felt a repetitive, annoying tune run through her mind as she tried to think. Six years. It had been six years since Fury had disappeared. Had he really cut a deal with the other side like Marco had said? _Rubbish,_ she thought. He was Nick Fury for God's sake! If anyone was capable of breaking out of a joint like the one Marco was in, it was Fury. Then what had gone wrong? And who the hell had planted the evidence against the two of them?

Amelia found her thoughts wander back to happier days – as they often did when she felt troubled. She could see her daughter trying to mimic her as she kneaded flour to make bread. At the time, it had frustrated her. Flour was sometimes hard to come by, but her daughter had insisted on making bread too. The cement floor would often be littered with splashes of white.

"_Out!__ Go out and play with your friends! Mama needs to make dinner, Ero._" she would say, frustrated.

Her daughter shook her head, "no".

She rolled her eyes. "_One would think we're millionaires – wasting food like this._ _Your father works hard to buy us all this...who knows how long it will last?_"

Her daughter shrugged indifferently, and thumped the dough particularly hard, causing a cloud of flour to fluff up into the air and make her cough.

"_It will last forever!_" came up a friendly voice from behind them both. The man kissed his wife and picked up his child as she struggled to get free to continue her dough-pounding.

And just like that – like one sweet kiss goodbye, the thought was gone.

Amelia sighed as she came out of her revelry. Dwelling on the past never did her any good, save to add fuel to the mounting fire. And burn away it did – despite the six year break in revenge. In a way, it was a relief, to abandon all that hate – even if it was temporary. It gave her time to think and to devote her attention to other matters. It made her feel guilty though, for trying to distract herself in this manner. Surely she wasn't doing right by her daughter. But she needed this time to collect herself.

Serving as intelligence in this freezing country wasn't exactly her idea of some R and R, but then again – she couldn't imagine anything of the sort since her daughter was murdered. Still, it was definitely better than some of the other places S.H.I.E.L.D. had stationed her at and it was much preferred to staying back home, in Afghanistan. Everything there was filled with too many painful memories – too many reminders. Her flat in Helsinki was cozy; she could even picture herself staying here permanently, although she knew that would never be. She herself wouldn't allow it. Not without completing what she had set out to accomplish.

The new information on Fury and the arrival of Marco had complicated things, though. She knew she would be ordered to remain on the job longer – probably here in Helsinki, before they gave her what she wanted most. And she was that desperate for it. She would follow the dangling carrots before her – it was what gave her sustenance and the will to carry on.


End file.
